The invite said wear pink, so pink we all wore. Some wore hot pink blazers, others pink wigs, and some pink bow ties with a kilt.
We walked towards the bass thump that resonated down the street, generating an aticipation for a house party rather than a gallery opening. Enroute to the porch we were already taking in installation pieces sprawled across the lawn (pink flamingos, of course). Climbing the craft paper covered steps, we turned the knob and were instantly drenched in the atmosphere of love. Pink lights, art, pictures, costumes, balloons, pillows, foods. It was as though each breath we took was caressed by an exciting yet familiar lover.
Attempting to describe every piece would be an exercise in futility. We saw twins feeding each other in nude unitards. Video projections. Mannequins with exotic masks. A fallen angel caring her heart in a bird cage. Words that wraped us in memories of love lost, and pictures inspiring us towards the astonishingly beautiful unknown.
Making our way through the throngs of attendees, we found ourselves in front of Chelsea's piece. She had made it for us; to her friends that she loved so dearly, based on an exceptionally chaotic night of breaking past our own limitations. We stood and we basked and we smiled. Our group was based in love, and we were surrounded by those who fucking loved us too.